


A Week

by EverythingCanadian



Category: Funhaus RPF, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gore, Other, Torture, this really just focuses on one little scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingCanadian/pseuds/EverythingCanadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt can feel the barrel of a Thompson press into his forehead, forcing his head to tilt back. His knees were killing him and his back was sore from kneeling on the concrete floor for so long and all these days. The bindings behind him were too strong in skill to even try and break free, not to mention one wrong tug and he’d be choking himself to death.</p>
<p>FOR THE NOIRE AU over on my tumblr ( http://everythingcanadian.tumblr.com/ ) I thought I’d write a little scene I’ve been playing around with in my head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Week

Matt can feel the barrel of a Thompson press into his forehead, forcing his head to tilt back. His knees were killing him and his back was sore from kneeling on the concrete floor for so long and all these days. The bindings behind him were too strong in skill to even try and break free, not to mention one wrong tug and he’d be choking himself to death.

“Looks like your little chickadees don’t care for you after all, they were just with you because they felt sorry for you, the quiet queer in the corner. ” the man chuckled. “It’s been a week and they haven’t even started to look for you, that’s embarrassing.” The synthetic sympathy made Matt internally wince.

Matt could feel the sticky slide of blood down the back of his throat, his nose was still bleeding. He was half unresponsive and everything that he did feel or hear felt distant. He had just enough morphine in his body to make him pliable and numb the pain but not enough to knock him out of this hell. These fuckers knew what they were doing and it had terrified Matt.

Now he just wanted it to be over.

Everything felt like it was in a thick fog, he felt like he was hearing through cotton and he could feel the ragged breaths he took through his mouth.

Matt had looked up at the suited man on the first day with bloodshot and bruised eyes, pupils blown and the light burning them and blurring his vision. “Who knew there were queers in the police, not I.” The man taunted, “They aren’t coming, and I’m going to take my sweet time with you. Mark you, brand you, chew you up and spit you out.”

Matt had already known he had a couple broken ribs from this guy’s goons kicking him before clamping a cloth in front of his face and shoving him into the back of a trunk. When Matt awoke he was being taken out of a different car, his surroundings unknown and Matt had started to fear for his life.

He didn’t hope the boys would find him, oh no, he hoped they didn’t go after him, hoped they’d never have to see his mangled body after Tweedle Dee had finished with him. He didn’t cry or grovel or scream or get angry, Matt took everything. Up until they tied him like a hog, with thin biting rope and tied him to both the anchor in the ground and loosely to the hook in the ceiling should he try anything drastic.

On the second day, or was it the third, Matt had clenched his jaw and leaked tears when he could feel the sharp sting of a scalpel in his chest, dragging over his skin like a tattoo needle but more jagged, carving the name of his new owner into his skin. Matt had hoped that the wounds didn’t even have time to scab over before he was killed, he didn’t want to belong to anyone else but his boys.

He was wrong, they did scab over but barely.

At night Matt would be released from the bonds and carried by this brute to a rickety old bed; he thanked the remaining hopes he had that all the man did was lay him down, give him water, food and let him rest. It was after all a give and take for this prick, give a place to rest and food to eat and take everything else away. The words Matt desperately held onto were “I don’t take pleasure in queer sex, I have a broad at home for that. I take pleasure in pulling my pets apart, leave them a bleeding, sniffling mess, and you are going to be my greatest pet when you crack.”

It was days after since he had been brought to wherever this was, days after the carving into his skin, and the blistered and burnt cattle branding on his left shoulder blade was fresh from yesterday’s torture session. He was beaten and drugged that morning only to be told the “lucky news” of his execution that afternoon.

It had been a solid week and he hadn’t said a peep, nothing. And he was now finally facing sweet death at the hand of this man, cold metal barrel digging into his forehead, drugged up and half aware. He was naked and tied back up in the same god forsaken knots and rope, skin raw and broken open, the rope stained with his own blood.

Matt gave away nothing on any cases or his boys and he was proud of that, he’d be leaving with a clear conscience and the knowledge that his boys are safe for the time being. Matt readied himself and closed his eyes, saying a quick thank you to his boys and hoping they felt his last goodbye.

The man leaned down for his final words, “You would have been a pretty pet if only you would have sang for me like the bitch that you are.” When he stood up he gripped the Thompson and braced himself for the kickback of the gun.

Matt heard the door open beside them and heard the sound of a pistol being shot off, the man never fully realizing what happened. He closed his eyes and awaited his own demise that never came. Matt didn’t know he was shaking until the bonds behind him were being untied. 

His body screamed through the morphine as his posture dropped and his limbs were released from behind him. Matt could hear himself take in a shaky breath, muscles kinked and sore from being held in a certain position for so long everyday, bones creaking and cracking with each rope cut from tension, body aching and stinging with scrapes, bruises, gashes, and broken bones. He fell forward into a pair of warm arms, carefully holding him as the remaining bonds were cut and removed from his naked body.

“We’re here Matt, you’re going to be okay.” he heard a familiar voice above him, still sounding like it was said through cotton. “We’ve got you buddy, you’re going home.” Home, he liked the sound of that.

He was carefully lifted up, a strong hand under his back curling his torso towards a warm chest, and an arm under his numb knees carrying him through the damp and cold building. Matt let the morphine take over his body.


End file.
